I let the diesel engines rumble in my ear for a long moment. Melissa, who had called me dramatic, who had told me I was dead to her, who had demanded I sell farm equipment to fund her wedding, was finally asking me a question instead of issuing an order. Where were they supposed to go. I looked at my peaches in the June sunlight and felt no anger, only a strange and quiet peace.
“That is not my problem to solve,” I said. The line went silent, so silent I could hear Bethany stop crying. Then I added the words I had waited three decades to say. “I told you the truth at dinner, by text, and in the family chat. You chose not to believe me. So now you will handle it the way adults handle the things they refuse to hear.” And then I hung up.
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